For all of you who know a "crazy cat lady," here's some proof that you're not far off.

A recent study of more than 45,000 women in Denmark (didn't know the European country was a haven for cat ladies, did ya?) showed alterations in their brains after being infected with toxoplasma gondii parasite, which is reportedly spread through cat feces, undercooked meat or unwashed vegetables. The infection could risk still birth or brain damage if transmitted to an unborn infant.

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According to the study, authored by the University of Maryland School of Medicine, women infected with the parasite were 1 1/2 times more likely to attempt suicide than those not infected.

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I know it's not an overwhelming increase, but sometimes in life all you need is a little nudge in order to do something drastic.

I have to admit I'm not a cat lover these days, mostly because I'm allergic to them. It wasn't always that way.

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Growing up, we had cats around, and we even had one in the house as I went through high school.

Boots was a black-and-white tiger striped kitty, and he gave us years of his feline antics.

He loved to bring home mice and moles to display on our front porch. Mom was never impressed with his hunting prowess, especially since she was usually the one disposing of the carcass.

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When Boots was not hunting, which was most of the time, he was sleeping. He didn't have a favorite spot - as far as I can recollect - and the notion to nap would just hit him all of a sudden, and down he'd go.

We have photos of him in awkward positions, fast asleep. He was one of the few cats I've ever seen who would sleep on his back, hind legs sprawled out.

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Probably sometime around my senior year, I noticed that after playing with Boots, my eyes would get itchy. It took awhile for me to make the connection, but since I had developed allergies to other things over the years, it didn't take me long.

For awhile, I was allergic to corn, but that wouldn't stop me from devouring ear after ear during the summer. A half hour later, but eyes would swell up for hours, and I could barely see, but it was worth it. I loved that buttery goodness and I had become an efficient cob cleaner.

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But once I determined that cat dander was a culprit, I went cold-kitty.

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I had a Bassett hound named Fred (Yep, named him after the pooch in Smokey and the Bandit), who lived to the ripe old age of 15.

The current pup, Joey, is around 7 now, and even though he sheds constantly, I don't seem to be bothered by it.

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So if that cat lady next door, with her clowder all around her, makes a fist at you the next time you drive by, don't pay much attention.

Either she just got done watching "Rocky" on television, or the parasite has finally kicked in.

Jerry Hitchcock, a copy editor for The Press, really hopes there's not too many crazy, suicidal cat ladies out there, but he's not taking any chances. He can be reached at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, or via email at [email protected].